The Fall of Carina Gordy

The mansion was quieter than ever. No staff. No catered brunch. Just the echo of Carina’s stilettos on the marble floors as she watched a team of men haul out her custom-designed Italian furniture like it was secondhand junk.

She stood at the top of the staircase in a silk robe, barely clinging to the illusion of control. A single sheet of paper trembled in her hand—the final divorce decree. Signed. Stamped. Delivered.

Carina Elise Gordy was officially no longer Mrs. Phillippe Trudeau.

Downstairs, her father oversaw the movers like he was directing an orchestra. Calm, efficient, merciless.

“I’ll be taking this set to the Gordy Foundation building,” he told the foreman, pointing to her favorite red velvet chaise. “It’ll do better work there than gathering dust under someone who doesn’t understand value.”

Carina descended the steps slowly, ice in her gaze. “You’re really doing this to your own daughter?”

John Gordy didn’t flinch. “I’m saving my daughter from herself.”